


Flannel and Brass

by hannah_baker



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Investigation, M/M, POV Sheriff Stilinski, parental concern
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-30 00:46:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1012030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannah_baker/pseuds/hannah_baker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Stilinski somehow finds himself in the middle of a casual investigation into his son's life. And isn't wholly pleased with what he finds. </p><p>Or, the one where the Sheriff digs around in his son's room multiple times and doesn't find drugs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flannel and Brass

**Author's Note:**

> Yes. "The Sheriff discovers Stiles and Derek's relationship" is officially my favorite thing to write. This is blatantly obvious. However, I wanted to try writing a fic that barely had any Stiles or Derek in it. It's almost all Sheriff, babies. And the Sheriff rules pretty hard.

It started with a key.

John Stilinski drove his son to school on Monday morning so he could take Stiles’ Jeep into the shop on his day off. The breaks had been squeaking, and he and Stiles had worked out a plan for Stiles to help pay for the repair. And maybe it needed more than just a brake job, from the way it ground in second gear.

“Take care of Roscoe!” Stiles called from over his shoulder, crosse hanging from a strap on his backpack, plaid flannel covering his shoulders and arms, as he disappeared into the current of kids that were spilling into the school building.

“I hope I never have to see you name an animal,” John mumbled under his breath. “And that your spouse is in charge of naming your children.” Sometimes it shocked John how much Stiles was like Claudia.

He’d driven to the garage and parked, had fiddled with Stiles’ keychain as he waited in line to talk to a service writer. He worried each individual key slowly as his brain wandered through the rest of the errands he had for the day. Stiles’ lego stormtrooper keychain, a well-worn silver Jeep key, the key to their house. And…and a third key that John had never seen before. It was shiny bright brass with few scratch marks, teeth sharp as though they’d been recently cut.

John knew that Melissa would never let Stiles had a key to their house. He knew his kid had boundary issues, and while Scott had a key to their house (which John had given him years back when things were getting rough with his dad in case Scott needed a safe place), he knew that it would never be an exchange. He understood.

John couldn’t think of a single other thing that Stiles would need a key for. It wasn’t his locker key - he had a combination lock - and it was clearly a key to a door anyway.

“Sheriff,” the man at the counter greeted him, holding out his hand for Stiles’ keys. He dropped them into his hand, shaking his head trying to get the gears in his brain to stop turning. He greeted Andrew, the kid who had grown up down the street from them and had just graduated from trade school and started fixing cars, and by the time he’d finished asking after Andrew’s family members and signed a consent form for the brake job, the mystery key had disappeared from his mind.

-

John was home on a Wednesday night when he would usually have had a shift. He could hear Stiles in his bedroom, moving around. He wasn’t playing video games otherwise John would have been able to hear him yelling at his teammates (or opponents - John could never tell) over his headset. If he had homework he would be quieter (or sometimes louder). But he was doing something.

It was almost dinnertime anyway. John left the pot of pasta boiling on the stove as he jogged upstairs to Stiles’ room and rapped on the door.

“Come in,” he heard through the door, and was greeted by his son in sweats and a beater sitting on his floor, arms folded over his knees. “Sit-ups,” Stiles said defensively in response to his dad’s questioning look, adding in a shrug that said _please don’t make a comment about how I never do sit-ups_.

John obliged, perfectly fine with however Stiles wanted to spend his time as long as he got his homework done. “What do you want with dinner?” he asked, Stiles prepared for the standard question.

“What’s dinner?” Stiles asked skeptically, his arms stretching over his head as he tried to cool down his muscles.

“Spaghetti,” John said, an unspoken apology implied. It was the cop-out go-to meal that John made whenever he didn’t have time or energy to think of something better. They ate a lot of spaghetti.

“Salad?” Stiles suggested, knowing that he had to pick a fruit and a vegetable. He struggled with this task just as much as John did, even though he was the one who had made up the rule. It was a sweet, though very annoying, attempt at keeping John’s heart away from an attack. “And apple sauce?”

“Got it,” John said, turning to leave when he saw a tell-tale deep purple mark on Stiles’ collarbone just above the neckline for the beater he was wearing. “Is that a hickey?” he asked, spitting out the question before he even thought this action through. Who the hell was giving his kid hickeys?

“Naw, Dad,” Stiles said, standing up suddenly and moving toward his closet, removing that particular part of his body from his father’s view. “Bruise from lacrosse. It was padless practice yesterday. Got a crosse to the neck.”

“Kid, you should never be allowed to have padless practice,” John said, letting out an exasperated sigh. He wasn’t sure there was much relief present.

It nagged on him though, through dinner when he and Stiles sat down in front of the TV and watched old M*A*S*H reruns while they ate, Stiles’ collarbone now covered in a t-shirt with a slogan on it so rude he’d had to turn it inside out the last time he wore it to school - John had gotten an email about that one. _Hit with a crosse?_ It was possible, John thought. But he thought it much more likely for it to be, you know, the other thing.

-

John didn’t count it as snooping if he was digging around in Stiles’ things in order to find something of his own. Stiles’ room was usually pretty tidy - he didn’t have molding plates under his bed or smelly socks everywhere - but he just wasn’t a very organized kid. At least not organized in any way that made sense to anyone outside of Stiles.

The normal places where Stiles might have stashed his dad’s nice belt that he borrowed for homecoming - the top drawer of his dresser where Stiles kept his other belts for example - were always the least likely places to find the elusive item. He checked in the little cubbies that made up Stiles’ headboard (which he would never do again, lord help him), he checked the shelves of his book case, and the floor of his closet when he finally caught a silver glimpse of the buckle sticking out of one of Stiles’ desk drawers.

He pulled the drawer open roughly, accidentally shaking the desk enough to knock a Darth Vader figurine over and onto the keyboard of his son’s computer, which promptly woke to display unseeable things. John understood that his kid was seventeen, had his own computer, and had access to the internet. And was seventeen. He himself had been seventeen once. He remembered what it was like, being horny all of the time, even if he hadn’t had access to the unlimited supply of porn that the internet offered today.

It’s just that whenever John had accidentally caught a glimpse of Stiles’ porn (to no fault of either men), it had always featured the fairer sex. But this page…

The page was tiled with photos that though some java script magnified when hovered over. And because John had both investigative training and that pesky little bit of the back of his mind (that knew Stiles entire brain was made out of) that said _What If_ , he couldn’t help but hover. Photo after photo featured ripped men with hard, weeping dicks. Men in jockstraps showing off muscled, hairy asses. Animated gifs of men jerking themselves to orgasm, come spilling onto chiseled abs. Men with rough stubble and alluring looks. Men. _Men._

John slammed the top of the laptop shut, heart beating quickly in his chest. His mind jarred suddenly from being nervous about being late for the meeting he had with the DA that afternoon, to being back outside the Jungle almost a year previously when Stiles had tried to tell him something that he couldn’t accept.

So what did this mean? Was his kid gay? Did it even matter? John sighed, grabbed his belt from the floor where he’d dropped it out of shock, and tried to focus on the fact that his kid was an idiot who left his porn up on his computer, instead of the fact that his kid was looking at those particular explicit images.

-

The benefit of being Sheriff was that sometimes he could push his chair away from his desk and go on patrol if he was bored. Of course he’d never phrase it like that to his deputies, but they were all in this thing together. The fact that paperwork was boring was not a secret.

He cruised across town, the Friday night quiet out in the residential area he was winding through to get to his favorite diner for a malt. As long as Stiles didn’t find the empty cup in his cruiser, he’d be fine.

The diner was two miles past were Scott and Melissa lived - where Stiles was supposed to be that night. But when he drove past the McCall’s house (it was almost on his way, and it was his kid, so he didn’t feel like he even really had to make excuses for checking up), the Jeep was missing from the driveway. It was eleven-thirty - he knew that Melissa had an eleven o’clock curfew for Scott during the school year - so his kid was distinctly not where he should be.

He dialed Stiles, pulling the cruiser to the curb across the street from Melissa’s house. His phone rang twice before he answered it.

“Hey, Daddio,” he said, clearly awake and upbeat.

“Please tell me that you are where you should be right now,” John said, trying not to be uncool dad, but knowing at the same time that his kid needed boundaries more than most. While some kids could be trusted to stay out of trouble, his kid had literally dug up a dead body. Well, half a dead body. He wasn’t sure if that fact made it better or worse.

“I am indeed,” Stiles said, in the chipper I’m telling you what you want to hear voice that John could recognize a mile off.

“And how would you define “where you should be right now?”” John asked him, slowly prying info out of Stiles.

“At the McCall’s?” Stiles asked slowly.

“Yes, that’s where you should be,” John said. “But not where you are.”

“Scott and I went to Danny’s house with some of the team to watch a movie,” Stiles said quickly, and John could hear his lie. _I got hit with a crosse yesterday during padless practice_ echoed in his mind.

“If you’re in a room full of boys, why is it silent?”

“You worry too much, Dad,” Stiles said. “I just stepped outside to take your call.”

“Kid, if you’re lying to me…” John said, hoping to god he could find enough truth in Stiles’ story to not get anxious.

“Dad, we’re just watching Inception. It’s just Danny’s house. I’m fine. I’m safe. No one is drinking.” At least Stiles sounded completely honest about the important parts of his statement. Safety. Drinking.

“You come home after the movie. Drop Scott off at his house, sleep in your own bed,” he directed, trying to make himself feel a little better. “You’re sure you’re completely sober?” he asked, not wanting his kid behind the wheel if he’d even had a sip.

“Dad, I promise that I haven’t been drinking. Just Mountain Dew.” Aside from the fact that Stiles was just barely together enough to articulate his own name when he was drunk, his extreme chipperness seemed to support the soda story. Yeah, Stiles was sober.

“I get off work in two hours. You’d better be home by then.”

“Yessir,” Stiles responded, and he could practically see his kid saluting him over the phone.

“I love you,” John said. And Stiles didn’t hesitate to return it.

-

It had been much easier, since John had found out that werewolves existed, to pretend like nothing supernatural was happening in his town now that the Hales had left. It was something about them - especially Derek, since John had never really gotten to know his little sister - that made him anxious. Stiles had said they were born wolves, whatever that meant.

He had known the Hales, had been friendly with Talia, who always seemed to keep her large number of children quiet and well behaved much more easily than he and Claudia ever could with Stiles. But seeing Derek as an adult called forth no memories of the eleven year old Derek he’d given a station tour to, who’d asked shyly for one of the plastic badge pins he instantly fixed to his shirt, smile bright and beaming.

He almost felt bad when he got a sting of disappointment when he saw Derek filling a Toyota SUV up at the gas station on a Tuesday morning. His thick stubble reminded John of something he'd seen recently, he just couldn't place it. Derek had gotten a new car at some point. John remembered the Camaro, remembered towing it off the old Hale land after Derek had been arrested. John had what he referred to as _an annoying dad thought_ , the kind that silently praised Derek for choosing a safer, more appropriate vehicle.

“Derek,” the Sheriff acknowledged across their shared pump when Derek turned toward him to run his credit card through the slot. He looked smaller than he had the last time John had seen him as he nodded his greeting back. He wasn’t bulky and ridiculous anymore. He was smaller through the shoulders, the muscles of his arms not pushing through the fabric of the shirt he was wearing - no leather jacket to speak of. He looked almost Stiles’ size, though he could have bet that he still had more definition.

Fall was here. The wind whipped chilly gusts through the parking lot, and John noticed the way Derek clutched the cuffs of his shirt, nervously balling soft cotton in his palms as though he was trying to calm down, the glint of the late afternoon sun bouncing off a brass key in the cluster he was clutching.

“You back in town, son?” John asked across the pump, trying to sound less like an officer of the law and more like someone who used to know his parents. “Or just passing through?”

“I’m back for a while, I think,” Derek answered politely, paying close attention to the nozzle in his car, looking as though he was patiently waiting for it to start everything on fire. John mentally punished himself for that thought the moment it slipped through the cracks of his brain. He probably was waiting for it to accidentally catch on fire, and it was nothing to joke about.

Derek fiddled with the cuffs of his shirt again, as though he wasn’t used to having them there. The key flashed again in the sunlight; The shirt looked familiar. It was a distinctive plaid, predominately black with green and blue threaded throughout, the Volcom symbol that was present on eighty percent of Stiles’ wardrobe sitting above the left chest pocket.

Derek pulled the hose out of his car and waved a polite goodbye at John, who watched (and maybe surreptitiously memorized Derek’s plate) as his Toyota pulled away. It wasn’t until he was completely out of sight that John realized - and was almost certain - that Stiles had that exact shirt, actually.

-

John couldn’t help himself. His mind naturally fit together puzzle pieces - he couldn’t stop himself from doing it. He was just going to find the black plaid shirt in Stiles’ closet, and then he’d be fine. His mind could stop connecting the freshly cut key on Stiles’ keyring with the incredibly masculine porn with the hickey on Stiles’ neck.

He absolutely had to find the shirt. The shirt was proof.

Stiles barely folded anything anymore, his clothes hanging out of drawers or half-assedly slipped over the bottom support of a hanger. And while he found copious plaid, none of his shirts were _the_ shirt. The shirt that he was coming closer and closer to thinking was currently on Derek Hale.

He tried not to panic at this thought, and instead tried to focus on the fact that all he’d found in his kid’s room after rummaging through it twice in the past two weeks was just some KY jelly and some gay porn. At least it wasn’t drugs.

He chanted that to himself as he hustled down to the basement to see if Stiles had dumped the shirt into the laundry. Not drugs. Not drugs. It sounded to him like werewolves weren’t affected by things like that the way humans were, so if Stiles was dating Derek Hale at least he wouldn’t be _that kind_ of bad influence.  

He stopped rummaging through the dirty laundry basket below the chute and resigned himself to the truth. The shirt was not there. The shirt was not in their house. The shirt was on Derek Hale. Good lord. Stiles was dating Derek Hale. Stiles was sneaking out nights to see Derek Hale. Stiles a a key to Derek Hale’s apartment. John needed a drink.

-

When Stiles came home that night, late after a double practice, John pushed him into the kitchen, made him sit down across from him at the kitchen table.

“Alright, alright,” Stiles said at his dad’s insistence, “but you’re writing your own death warrant here,” Stiles said, “I smell like the locker room. I didn’t get the chance to shower.”

“You’re not doing drugs, are you?” John asked, his brain a little scattered. He’d been planning on doing this thing a little more slowly. But he was on to Plan B already here. At least Stiles looked taken aback and shocked by the question.

“Dad, what? No,” Stiles said, and his denial was enough for John at the moment. He just had to get it off his plate. “What kind of drugs do you think I’m on?”

“I know you’re dating Derek Hale,” John said, point blank, no transition, watching Stiles freeze, his arms suspended in a comically exaggerated pit sniff.

“Where did you get that idea?” Stiles asked, timid as his _guilty_ face finally showed up for the party.

“I saw him wearing your clothes,” John said. “You have what I assume is the key to his apartment on your keyring - which as an underage young man is an inappropriate thing to carry. You’ve been seeing him on nights I work.”

“Dad,” Stiles started, barely able to start defending himself before John cut him off.

“Before you say anything, I just want to let you know that I love you no matter who you’re attracted to. Or rather, no matter what gender,” he amended, his first statement sounding too pro-Derek for his liking.

“But…?” Stiles said, clenching his teeth to brace for the oncoming blow.

“But you’ve been lying to me, kiddo.”

“It never starts out as lying,” Stiles sighed, slouching in his seat. John knew he’d broken him down. “Last Friday I was at Scott’s - that wasn’t a lie - but then he got a call from Allison, and so I just… went to hang out with Derek. We did watch Inception, if that helps?”

“Because you have his key,” John said, leading the conversation to where he wanted it to go. “Why do you have his key?”

“Honestly I have it just in case he gets locked out,” Stiles said. “He gave it to me before we started dating. Just because he doesn’t really know anyone else around here anymore.”

“Never reconnected with his friends from high school?” John asked, suddenly curious.

“It’s hard to bond with people when you can’t talk to them about anything in your life,” Stiles suggested, shrugging. John supposed that was right. “Plus, no matter how innocent you are, there’s stigma after a murder charge. He says he still gets the stink eye all over town. The cafe on third won’t serve him.” John frowned at that. He’d have to talk to April about that.

“And he came back?” John asked, confused. Stiles blushed deep at the question and averted his eyes. Okay. He came back for Stiles. “From now on I want to know when you’re with him,” John said, looking Stiles square in the face. “If you sneak out at night or lie about where you are, your Jeep officially is out of commission. And your grades stay up too.”

“Yeah, Dad. For sure,” Stiles said, a look of hope on his face. He’d lay down more rules as they became necessary, but for now he could at least relax knowing his kid wasn’t snorting meth off the ass of a back alley hooker. Not that that was a real concern. Just a nagging parental thought that floated absently around in the back of his mind.

“And close out of your porn when you leave your computer,” he said, pushing away from the table and walking up the stairs to his room, hearing the desperate gasps of embarrassment coming from his son, still seated at the kitchen table.

“Let’s pretend you saw nothing!” Stiles called after him, his voice barely a squeak. John could handle that.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Follow me [on tumblr](http://hannahisawolf.tumblr.com) for some quality reblogs of Tyler Hoechlin's scruff. And other things too sometimes.


End file.
